Fallout: The Utah Front
by Caesar Dictator
Summary: Four years after the New California Republic beat Caesar's Legion at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, conflict once again breaks out, this time over Utah. Politicians battle one another in the corridors of power. Ordinary men and women adapt to overwhelming hardships. And, on the Utah Front, soldiers on both sides fight, live, and die ... because war, war never changes.


"I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones." -Albert Einstein

"We may be likened to two scorpions in a bottle, each capable of killing the other, but only at the risk of his own life." -J. Robert Oppenheimer, _Atomic Weapons and American Policy_

"Vicissitudes of fortune, which spares neither man nor the proudest of his works, which buries empires and cities in a common grave." -Edward Gibbon, _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

* * *

><p>The centurion Quintus Curius looked through his rimmed spectacles at the report placed before him, sitting at his desk and mulling over the words carefully, slowly. Pushing his spectacles up, he glanced momentarily away from the report at the street below, a portion of his office missing a section or two of wall. A hastily erected wooden bridge led to the adjacent building from the exposed flank of his office, which in turn ran to another series of buildings connected to each other all the same nestled safely high above. Such was life in Dog Town, the city's streets being very inhospitable to those without sufficient weapons or numbers to ward off the dogs roaming about that gave the city its name. For the cohort however, tucked away into a complex of derelict structures scattered across the ruins of what had once been known as Denver, a pack or two of dogs posed little threat. Besides, he thought as he went back to reading the report, it kept the men sharp. With war clouds looming over the Utah, even the most seasoned troops would need to remain so, the New California Republic serving as a much fiercer foe than a handful of feral mutts.<p>

Curius sighed heavily at the thought of another war, even one which could very well bring glory to the Legion and make up for their bruising defeat at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, a battle four years past which they were still trying to recover from. He sighed once more as he finished reading the report, knowing all too well that it had cost Caesar greatly to rebuild the shattered remnants of the Legion back up into something resembling a respectable fighting force. Nonetheless, it wasn't what it had been prior to the war.

The report confirmed his worst fears. The cohort, and for that matter his own century within it, were short on both men and materiel, a bad omen made worse by the haunting specter of a new war. Furthermore, the overall forces under his command existed way below paper strength, a fact which made him frown once he noted it in the report.

Taking out a cigarette from his pack, he lit it just as there came a knock on the door. "Come in." He said as he put the lighter back into his pocket. "Come in," he said again, taking a drag on his cigarette as he spoke.

The door swung open, groaning on its ancient hinges, revealing a clerk somewhat younger than himself clutching at a bunch of papers held firmly against his chest. He was clad in a tanned short sleeved Brahmin-skin tunic, faintly visible underneath his reinforced steel body armor, leather thongs running straight down to his knees just above his sandals. Dagger and sheathed machete hung low from his belt on the left and right hand sides respectively, a worn hunting rifle slung around his shoulder by a leather strap. A crowning steel helmet was the only thing lacking, thin tufts of graying hair combed neatly back over his head.

"Good morning, Quintus Curius." He said in strained Latin, the bare hint of a smile present on his face as he showed the papers to his commanding officer. "Here are the reports you'd asked for."

"Thanks. I'll read through them right away." Curius said with a quick grin, which soon enough collapsed into a stony frown as he took the lengthy reports from the clerk's hands, setting them aside neatly onto one corner of his desk with a heavy sigh.

"Now," Curius said aloud, "leave me be. I'll send for you again when necessary. Close the door on your way out, if you will."

The clerk, at first undecided as to whether or not he should stay put or leave the office, finally made up his mind and left. As he did so, he at least had the common courtesy to quietly shut the door behind him. A good soldier, in all likelihood, yes. A good officer, perhaps. With that thought in mind, Curius began looking over the stacked reports each individually, sighing all the more as he did so.

The reports, when taken together as a completed whole, accentuated the prevailing image of a force in decline. His staff, bloated as always, had nonetheless neatly cataloged the sorry state of the century in an efficient manner.

"Bureaucracy," he found himself muttering as he read methodically through the last few papers, "bureaucracy never changes." As he said these words, he ground his cigarette down into the ashtray. Almost through habit, he removed another one from his pack and lit it.

Food was hardly an issue. Meat and various crops gathered up in the southwestern provinces found their way into Dog Town, the main obstacle to routine food deliveries being the ravenous packs of dogs prowling about in the streets. Still, the caravans came in armed and therefore well prepared, putting down any dogs that came near them on their way to the heavily guarded inner city complex housing the cohort. As such, the granaries were filled to capacity. Salted beef and preserved vegetables offered up a steady, if not admittedly bland, diet for the troops.

Military supplies, such as ammunition and firearms, were in short supply, though. They mostly went not to Dog Town but to the Legion's main camp, situated in the vast High Plains to the east, cold logic dictating the unequal provisioning of said supplies. Unlike the NCR, which could simply manufacture its own bullets, guns, and any spare parts as needed, Caesar mainly relied on a tight smuggling operation extending across the Colorado River into Nevada and even New California. Whatever couldn't be clandestinely obtained was traded for with the Mormon nation state of Deseret, which ran a lucrative trading network that was eager for both Legion denarii and NCR paper currency.

However, the most pressing concern was the lack of recruits to fill not only his century but the rest of the cohort's assembled centuries too, the complaints of his fellow centurions for more men becoming fairly commonplace in the face of a potential war. _Had it not been for the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, we wouldn't be in this mess. _That sole momentary thought forced the memories of that horrific onslaught back into his mind, vivid in all of its bloodiness.

The ill-fated second Legion assault on Hoover Dam had laid waste to much of Caesar's army as it was, which had in turn been hastily and painstakingly cobbled together three years after the First Battle of Hoover Dam ended with similar results. The attack plan had been solid. The senior ranking centurion commanding the first cohort, however, had sent his men into battle early, expecting much glory. That had been a mistake. His men, battle-hardened as they were, garnered the dubious honor of sustaining massive casualties as they tried to secure the top section of the Dam. The NCR troopers had fought hard behind very defensible positions and with immense determination to hold their ground both above and below. Well-placed minefields, machine gun, rifle, and sniper positions tore away at the advancing legionaries when the premature attack began, the machine gunners, riflemen, and snipers firing until almost down to the last man before making a tactical retreat. Heading below after having finally secured the top of the Dam amidst great loss of life, yet more of the foolhardy centurion's soldiers were cut down in hallways, corridors, and rooms that had either been booby-trapped, lightly defended, or turned into key bottlenecks with heavier emphasis on defense. The first cohort was forced to retreat topside, losing most of the uppermost section of the Dam to a determined NCR counterattack before being reinforced by newly arrived legionaries from other cohorts, only then committed to the field of battle by the Legate and ahead of schedule for that matter.

The fifth cohort, to which Curius belonged, had been part of that force meant to save the first cohort from total defeat. As he and his men dug in and around the first cohort's shrunken position, the sudden whine of a prewar bomber's engines sliced through the air over the chaotic sounds of battle, dropping incendiary bombs onto their already tenuous position. They had barely enough time to get away, while under fire and being strafed by Enclave vertibirds to boot. A good portion of the fifth cohort had been decimated, his century fortunately remaining mostly intact while other centuries in the same cohort were ravaged or nearly destroyed. The first cohort was more or less wiped out. For his part, the senior ranking centurion of the first cohort was struck down by a sniper's bullet; his death, nonetheless, was assured regardless of whether or not he had survived the slaughter that had been ironically misnamed as a battle. The Legate, for allowing the assault of the first cohort to begin when it did, was summarily executed on Caesar's direct command following the chaotic struggle for the Dam.

A series of quick knocks on the office door interrupted Curius from his deep thoughts. "Please, do come in." He said, blowing smoke from his cigarette before realizing that it had to be discarded, having burnt down very near to a stub. He put it out in the ashtray as the door opened. It was his optio, whom he had been expecting to arrive on the hour. He didn't disappoint, punctual as ever.

"Curius," His optio said in a friendly manner as he stepped into the office, "I trust that the librarius's compiled reports proved sufficient?"

"Yes, yes, Acilius, very much so." The two men, one the commander of a century and the other an ambitious young officer eager to one day become a centurion himself, addressed each other by their nomen freely and casually. Curius had fought alongside Acilius at the Dam, the youthful, fresh faced optio proving his worth in battle and even saving his skin a few times in doing so. That, in Curius's book, was enough to consider Acilius an amicus, a friend.

"The reports," Acilius began, "don't bode well for this century, the entire cohort even, in the event of another war with the bear." He pronounced the word "bear" with contempt, putting undue stress onto the word, a frown plastered onto his face as he spoke. The bear, as they both knew, was the Legion's scornful name for the NCR.

"Indeed. Any word from the main force?"

"As a matter of fact, word has gotten through, an order actually."

"An order?"

"Here," Acilius said before handing him a closed envelope, which Curius eagerly tore open with a penknife taken from his desk drawer, "this just came in, from the Legate himself."

Curius read through the order once, stricken for words. Looking it over a good two or three times, he neatly folded it back up and put it onto his desk away from the reports gathered up directly in front of him.

"So," Acilius said, "what does it say?"

"It says we are to attach the cohort to the main army, and that the other centurions have also been given the same order. We are to do so at once." _An unusual occurrence during peacetime, but during war…_

"Meaning?"

"Acilius, I don't quite know." Curius said gravely, meekly, fishing for another cigarette from his pack. Lighting it with a shaky hand, he tried to remain calm. "I'm afraid that I just don't know."

"Should I rally the men?"

"Not yet." Curius said, blowing smoke, a hint of nervousness present in his voice. With those words, both men prepared to leave the office in almost total silence, nary a word said between the two comrades-in-arms as they strode forth deeper into the decaying bowls of the skyscraper to carry out the task assigned to them. "Not yet, Acilius."

* * *

><p>The First Recon red beret was the last thing they never saw. Sergeant Philip Young peered down the scope of his cherished M40 sniper rifle at his unsuspecting prey, a slaver from Utah. His finger tense on the trigger, he put the cross hairs roughly over the man's chest, aiming very near to the heart. The slaver was just another stick to be broken.<p>

"Open up on 'em after the first shot." He said to his two student snipers, youthful proteges that he had taken under his wing. His would be the first shot.

The sky was flush with a slight pink tinge. They had waited for the sun to go down before resuming the hunt, not wanting to have bright glare settle over their scopes, giving the position that they had carefully chosen away.

From atop the high ridge where they lay prone, the cracked and faded interstate highway system running from the Mojave wasteland to Utah's lawless outskirts sliced its way straight into Mormon country. Likewise, standard issue 7.62 mm armor-piercing rounds would cut right through the steel combat vests and helmets worn by this particular band of slavers.

Confident that his aim was steady, he fired his Forty, quickly working the bolt as to chamber in a new round. From afar, he could see the hapless slaver stagger and fall back from the sudden impact of the bullet. Trained as a spotter, he intuitively noticed the distinctive twitch of the man's leg, which violently jerked to a stop before his whole body gave way to deathly stillness.

The roar of his students' scoped rifles came shortly there afterwards, just as the spent cartridge popped up out of the Forty's breech with a metallic clang. One, two, three more slavers went down against the desert sand, dead, given no chance to respond as the shots rang out in rapid succession.

Adjusting his aim, Sergeant Young fired onto the sole remaining slaver, who had tried to turn tail and run. Even as the doomed man started to do so, a bullet from his Forty caught him just below the jaw. Blood spurted from the slaver's neck, part of which was torn asunder by the powerful blast, sinewy bits of muscle and skin carried away along with the fast moving bullet. Hitting the pavement, he gripped uselessly at the gaping wound and wildly thrashed about in agony, Young watching as the lousy bastard bled out. Then …

Silence. Somewhere, crickets chirped. Otherwise, all that could be heard was the chilling wind that had begun to come in as evening gradually slipped into night. For a time, no one spoke.

"Hardly in the black, but this wasn't mere target practice at the gun range." He said aloud, breaking the uneasy calm, slowly rising up from the ground. "This was the real thing." His voice was serious, firm, grainy bits of sand falling from his khaki camouflage as he arose.

"Could be worse," Corporal Kyle Bryson said, rising up in turn, "the First could've stuck us in a lonely little observation post somewhere." The tall, lanky student sniper had a point. There were those in First Recon who had no love for sharpshooters, and who didn't know one bit how to use them properly. _Goddamned marine infantrymen. _

"Agreed. Going off the mark a little is a lot better than roasting in a concrete box." PFC Ryan Keys replied, now standing on his two feet admiring the view, sticking a cigarette in his mouth as he spoke. "Anyone gotta lighter?"

Young handed him one from his pocket wordlessly, smiling and wiping sand away from his camo fastidiously. Both students had done well, needless to say, cutting down their live targets swiftly and no doubt coolly. For that, the rookies were to be commended, if only for that.

As he stood, looking out at the highway below that was rife with a never ending stream of wrecked cars, the smile gradually faded from his face. In Utah proper, NCR pioneers pushed ever deeper, armed and constantly running into conflict with the Mormon authorities. "It's only a matter of time …" He muttered to himself, distractedly staring eastwards. _Before we or Caesar's Legion start a war over the blasted place._ _Both of us have regularly violated Deseret's sovereignty, after all. _However, that was for the politicians to decide, he thought as to partially reassure himself that an outbreak of war was not inevitable.

"What, sir?" Corporal Bryson asked.

"Just thinking out loud." He then turned to face the two rookies, his face stony with complete seriousness. "Let's radio back to camp." As he spoke, he motioned to the bulky tan radio set off to the side. Meant to be worn around one's back, the large radio allowed for constant communication back and forth between camp and a sniper team out in the field. The radio had, of course, remained off just then. PFC Keys dutifully obeyed Young's order, turning it on with the quick flip of a switch. It hummed to life, glowing faintly. Young moved to pick up the receiver, putting it close to his mouth, holding the button down. "Diego 2-8, this is Diego 2-7. How copy?"

Young waited for the inevitable reply, listening at first to hissing static.

"Roger, Diego 2-7. What is the status of your mission, over?" The voice came through tinny, distorted. However, it bore the unmistakable, raspy tone that could only have belonged to Lieutenant Peter Dawson, commander of Whisper Platoon.

"Mission accomplished. Heading back to the barn, over."

"Copy, Diego 2-7. Be safe out there. Raiders can be a real pain in the ass these days, over."

"Acknowledged, Diego 2-8. Diego 2-7, out."

The aging marine had spoken the hard truth. The NCR was still busy pacifying what made up the very edge of the Mojave, not committing as much troops as both he and the Lieutenant would have liked owing to a hyper focus on keeping the roads straddling the much more populated areas nearer to Vegas safe and sound. As it was, the literal barn that was situated near an old farmhouse consisted only of one platoon, their platoon.

Sure, the boys from Victor Company could come in at any time, but they were not actually at camp as the snipers of Whisper Platoon yearned to keep the lowest profile. As for the other companies making up the First, those were scattered across a vast terrain with the stated purpose of policing a large swath of the porous border with Utah, not just the one section of highway that Dawson and his few men were put in charge of monitoring.

These days, though, all that they _had _to worry about were the occasional movements of raiders or slavers operating in the general area. For that, just in case, he had an M16 assault rifle that he had taken with him. Proper procedure, for a sniper, acknowledging the obvious thought with a smile.

Descending the ridge, Bryson carrying the radio on his back, they began to walk back to camp onto the road, the chilling wind whistling across the wastes. A full blue moon hung low over the darkened sky, lighting the way to a degree, but just barely. Walking ahead of his students, Young abruptly stopped, sending his gaze over to a small gas station positioned not too far away.

"Sir?" Corporal Bryson said, confused from seeing his commander halt in front of him.

"Nothing, corporal." He continued to look at the ruinous structure situated several klicks away on the road opposite from them, thinking just then that he had seen shadows flicker briefly against the decrepit walls of the building, swearing to himself that a glimmer of light shone in that direction.

Gunfire. Three rapid bursts from an automatic rifle made its presence known over that of the chirping crickets, over the wind.

"Shit-" the youthful PFC never got a chance to finish his sentence. Two bullets struck him squarely in the chest, pushing him backwards down onto the ground. The third one cracked past Young's head. At once kneeling down before Keys, he unbuttoned the top part of his uniform as to expose the Kevlar body vest that lay beneath. The bullets had ripped neat round holes in his camo, but had fortunately not penetrated through his vest, reinforced as it was by cold, thick steel.

"Not .308, without question." He muttered to himself reassuringly.

More frenzied shots followed, bullets kicking up sand very near to him. Looking again more closely at PFC Key's vest even as bullets continued to hit the ground all around him, he noticed a trace of blood, which had begun to trickle out from the wound.

"Morphine, med-x." Keys said, gritting his teeth, placing both hands over his vest. "Med-x." He said again, his hands forming into tight fists.

"Hold on." Sergeant Young said before rising back up, shouldering his assault rifle, swinging his body around as to face the gas station. He now clearly saw their attackers through the moonlit darkness, a band of men, some of whom were surging forth armed with what looked like rippers. Those rotary knifes could tear through a man's flesh with ease, or so it was rumored.

And, he realized, they weren't just charging blindly at him and his students. Some of the men moved ever closer to the left, the rest fanning out to the right, while the others continued to lay down cover fire. Luckily, the bastards didn't seem to know how to properly use the firearms that they had.

He took aim and fired at those flanking from the right, but not before flipping the switch of his M16 to full auto. With death an almost guaranteed certainty, why not take as many of them down with him as possible?

A few attackers did go down, but they were spread far enough apart as to make it difficult for Young to select targets accurately, despite his grueling training in small arms. The raiders, or at least that's what he reckoned them to be, became closer with every passing second. The students that he had taken under his wing, whom he had grown to know personally, were goners as was he.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the harsh roar of an engine broke through the sounds of gunfire and the sickening noise of the rippers that begged for soft flesh. He saw a salvaged jeep toting a mounted .50-cal drive up and then stop a good number of paces away from the gas station.

The gunner aboard the jeep swiveled the turret to the left, spraying the raiders with hot lead, knocking down those enemies advancing from that flank in short order. The right-wing met the same fate, cut down by a hail of powerful bullets. The much weaker rounds loaded into his M16 were small potatoes in comparison, even with the assault rifle set to full auto.

The .50-cal now swiveled over to the gas station, raking it with immense firepower, tearing to bits wood, brick, and raiders all the same. As the turret gunner did his work, Young once more knelt down onto the ground before the injured PFC. Remembering Corporal Bryson, he glanced up to see him lying flat on his back. If he was moving, alive, he couldn't tell.

"Med-x." Even before PFC Keys spoke weakly, agonizingly, Young had already removed his backpack which he placed beside him, digging through it hastily in the hopes of finding some morphine. Finding the med-x, several doses worth, he took out a syringe from his pack and injected it into Keys, who continued to ball his fists which began to loosen up as the morphine entered his veins. Blood smeared his Kevlar, yet more of it surging forth. "Christ, thank you." He said, calmer now, his voice sounding sedate. Young put pressure onto the part of his chest wherein the bullets had penetrated, deeper than he had originally thought, feeling warm blood rush out onto his palms and through his fingers.

The deafening roar of the .50-cal meanwhile stopped, the gunner having completed his macabre task. Two squads worth of men moved to secure the already aged, beaten down building, now shot up. Chunks of brick littered the ground, the wooden porch on the old-fashioned prewar gas station entirely gone, with only chips of wood both big and small left to tell of its former existence. Another squad went over to where Young was. In no time, it seemed, they arrived.

"Victor Company, Deathclaw Platoon. I'm Staff Sergeant Westfield, in charge of this force." Westfield looked down at PFC Keys, then saw Corporal Bryson lying down still, propped up by the radio worn around his back.

"He's dead!" A soldier shouted, several men having went over to the lifeless body, hoping along with Young that he was still alive.

Young stared into Key's face, which came off as serene, almost in an eerie way. Looking up at the staff sergeant, blood still pouring out over onto his hands, he asked quietly "what happened?"

Westfield said nothing for a while, finally saying "war happened." Looking back down, he watched as the color drained from the PFC's face, his eyes turning glassy with death. Both students were now dead, killed under his watch.

* * *

><p>True to its name, Junk Town was made up of various scraps of metal, its high walls gleaming in the noonday sun. Human industry, Johnathan H. Eaton thought as he tried in vain to settle into a hard wooden seat, had seldom been present so soon after the Great Deluge had wiped out prewar civilization.<p>

He was leaving the primitive town behind. The train's engine started up, the spokes of the train pushing the wheels ever forward. Tendrils of thick, oily black smoke wafted over to the windowsill, obscuring Johnathan's vision as the train rolled out of the station. "Good riddance to that mere blot on the map." He said to himself, wiping dust off of his suit and putting his reading glasses on.

He looked down at the speech he had been writing, a collection of pages sending invective towards that plague destroying the NCR from within, those diseased ghouls and super mutants seeking to undermine the human race. _A fine speech, a damned fine speech. _

Still sitting, uncomfortable, he picked up a newspaper off of the empty seat opposite him.

The lead headline told of a bold attack on an NCR army position that had killed two soldiers, snipers from the famed First Recon Battalion, who'd been courageously keeping the slave trade out of Nevada. Acting on their own intelligence, men from Victor Company had saved a certain Sergeant Philip Young from an assured death, killing all of the attackers swiftly and efficiently.

Finishing the article, he found himself nodding off to sleep, despite his severe discomfort. When he awoke he looked back out of the window at the dry, barren wasteland, now bisected by railroad tracks. The NCR had long since jump started infrastructure in the Core Region, creating a complex web of lines extending all the way into the Mojave. Human industry, it all of its splendor, had finally made itself known once more to the world.

The train was headed to Shady Sands, capital of the NCR, to the far north of Junk Town. It would stop briefly to refuel at San Francisco, stronghold of the powerful Shi, who were tolerated by the NCR government. It was China, he was certain, that had launched its nukes first at the prewar United States. As such, the Red Chinese had caused the Great Deluge.

Still, the city's denizens had not only refurbished many of San Francisco's structures, but they had also managed to keep the Golden Gate Bridge from collapsing. He would be nearing the impressive city in no time.

Once more falling fast asleep, he was roused from his slumber by the screeching of wheels and the flying of sparks as the train ground to a halt outside the train station on the outskirts of San Francisco. The passengers had already begun to pile out. Quickly shoving his folded up speech back into his coat pocket and taking with him a bag of caps, he exited the train before being thrust into a vast sea of talking, laughing people going about their daily business. Pushing his way through the crowd, he managed to find a rickshaw puller. Giving the man some caps, who consequently smiled with a toothy grin, he was taken through a labyrinth of neatly cobble stoned streets populated mostly by ethnic Chinese. A few passer byes shot glances at him, no doubt because of Eaton's white skin color and his unusual tallness.

The rickshaw puller stopped at the local marketplace. Thanking the man for taking him there, he got off of the rickshaw and looked up at the skyline, clearly visible from where he stood. The Colt Tower could be seen high above, its original destroyed prewar murals replaced by new ones within painted by talented Shi artists. He could smell the salty sea air, feeling a cool breeze wash over him as he walked over to a stall, already taking out several caps from his bag to buy something for his beloved wife. Looking over a particular vendor's numerous items, he studied the prices carefully. Finding a nice white porcelain ornament, he placed the caps that he had removed from his bag out onto the counter, plunking down a few more to pay for the ornament. "I'd like to buy this ornament, please." He said, holding the fragile work of art up, which seemed to shine and sparkle in the sunlight. The merchant, an older yet no less sprightly Chinese man, picked up the caps off of the counter and put them into an opened safe, which he then closed shut.

"Sir, be careful, for it is very delicate." As the aged merchant said so, he wrapped it in paper and placed it into a cardboard box.

"Will do." With those parting words, Johnathan strolled through the marketplace admiring the sights, sounds, and smells that could only be produced by a thriving, truly living humanity.

He checked his watch. The train wouldn't leave until about an hour, the crew no doubt hard at work refueling the metallic beast with mounds of coal. That left him, he judged, with enough time to head up to the Colt Tower, and from there see the Golden Gate Bridge in all of its majestic prewar glory. Reaching the base of the hill atop which stood the Colt Tower after traversing a series of hilly streets, he began the laborious ascent up, his walking cane held out as he strolled forth along the pathway, breathing heavily from the strain.

Gasping for breath, he reached the summit, staring out at the beautiful vista below. There she was, the red paint clearly peeling off from the bridge's rusty, grayed supports, nonetheless still standing after so many years of having been left in utter disrepair. Propped up by the Shi, the bridge extended across the San Francisco Bay onwards to distant shores, connecting the city to outlying regions. The shattered, rusted away hulks of cars spanned for miles, seemingly never ending. Travelers went on foot, along the sides separated from the center most prewar highway, to cross it.

Checking his watch again, he realized that he had to get back to the station, pronto. Descending the hill, regretting that he didn't have time to see the artwork placed inside the Colt Tower, he walked back over to the station in time to board the train just as the conductor said that it was about to leave. Easing himself back into a seat, he went to sleep again. Waking up, stretching out his arms and sighing, he could see Shady Sands become closer and closer out of the window as the train sped forth at a breakneck pace.

Shady Sands. Now there was a place! A virtuous, robust city that dwarfed all other settlements across the whole of New California, the capital spread out in all directions throughout the surrounding area, gracing the wastes with stout adobe buildings. Thanks to the discovery of a workable Garden of Eden Creation Kit, much of the landscape had been made green and lush, leafy trees lining wide boulevards. San Francisco was only an insignificant drop of water in a much vaster ocean. The so-called G.E.C.K., of course, required nothing more than a drop of water to work its magic.

The train pulled into a big station situated just outside of the city gate, the conductor shouting for passengers to get up and disembark. Doing so, he stepped out onto the wooden platform, which was even bigger than the one at San Francisco. Boxed porcelain in hand, speech sticking up out of his pocket a bit, he strolled forth away from the station. He stepped out onto wet grass, his shoes falling into fresh mud left over from a recent rain shower, walking through the massive gate. Cursing to himself. He strode leisurely through the city, casting his gaze over to the former slave pen that had long since been turned into a makeshift prison.

Passing several buildings and a bar to the south, he strode over to one of Shady Sand's electric gates, showing the guard that he was unarmed. The guard hopped to it, turning off the gate, the yellow field dissipating as the power was temporarily shut off. He and a bevy of other people went beyond it, heading to downtown, which housed the capital's main police station and, beyond that, the NCR Congress which was his intended destination. First, though, he would go see his wife.

The apartment complex was made simply of wood and mud brick, crude but livable. Entering it, he went up to the second floor and knocked on the room door, which his wife eagerly opened. She smiled as she saw him standing there, package in hand.

"What's in the box, if I may ask?" Samantha Eaton said, her smile only widening as he began to open it without saying anything.

"Here," he said after a spell of silence, taking out the porcelain which he slowly unwrapped. "It's for you. Straight from San Francisco."

"Johnathan, this is-" She said, struggling for words, elated. "This is wonderful, absolutely wonderful."

"I'm glad you like it, my dear." Johnathan said, smiling thinly, moving deeper into the apartment.

The main room was sparse, bare, sprinkled here and there with plain wooden furniture. The bed room was divided from the kitchen by a length of curtain, there being barely enough space to sit down and eat properly. Going over to the kitchen, Samantha put the porcelain aside onto the counter, standing before the stove.

"I'm afraid I'll be eating late tonight."

"Congress, without a doubt, I'm guessing." She said slyly, with a quick, short smile.

"Yes, exactly," Johnathan said, mirroring her smile, "My Congressional office beckons. No rest for the weary, even after a long train ride back." With those curt words he kissed her before leaving, heading down the flight of stairs and out into the open air. He walked down the street and past another electric gate, which likewise turned off after several guards checked him for weapons. He went through the gate, passing the statue of a man known only as the Vault Dweller, someone who had supposedly saved Shady Sands back when it was still an ignored, unimportant village among many. "Not likely." He muttered as he came to face the entrance to Congress. Here, too, guards did a thorough search for any weapons that he might've been carrying with him. Clearing him to go ahead, the door was opened automatically by the push of a button, connected as it was to a solar power plant by a complicated grid of wires that ran their way through the city.

Entering the domed building, he stared up at the ornate rotunda, decked with murals far surpassing those found in the Colt Tower. He went up the stairs to his third floor office, unlocking the door and heading inside. Sitting down at his desk, he turned on the lamp light. Johnathan took out his speech and set it aside, putting his reading glasses on once more. His secretary had momentarily come in to give him the reports that he had requested. He read through them several times, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. The documents spoke of a spate of coordinated attacks on NCR soldiers and pioneers both from within and without what Caesar called "the Utah," written with diplomacy in mind. These observations echoed the newspaper article that he had read earlier on the train, buttressing his personal belief that these weren't just merely crude acts of violence, carried out by petty raider groups. It was no secret that Caesar was sending tribes seeking assimilation into the Legion against the NCR, all the more so as the two powers crossed paths in Utah. No, these were individuals well trained in small arms, who'd had mirrored the NCR Army in basic infantry tactics, making them the perfect insurgents. If Caesar wanted to undermine NCR power and ambition in Utah, he was doing an excellent job.

"War," he said as he took one last look at the papers, "war never changes." Johnathan frowned. He would bay for the Legion's blood on the floor of Congress. The NCR, too, would bay for blood. He'd make certain of that.


End file.
